Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance)

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Yes it is. Everett asked her to leave. Then he contacted her in London, for the divorce.” Bettina stared into her teacup when she said the last.

  “Such an unfortunate situation. Bronnmargh looks as neglected as I’m sure my son’s heart was for all that time.” Mrs. Camborne gazed around the dining room, into the dark corners.

  “His heart is fine now.” Bettina wanted to speak of practical topics. “I would like to make a few alterations in here.” Her real desire was to tear down the manor and build a cozy cottage, but she wouldn’t mention that. “This is a large place for us to still live in.”

  “You should have seen this estate when Sam was alive.” The woman smiled, her wrinkles softening. “How it prospered. We used to grow corn and wheat in the early days. Made a good profit, too. We had tenant farmers. There was a smokehouse, a bakehouse. But I suppose we can’t always dwell in the past, can we, dear?”

  “No, we cannot.” Bettina tried to shift her own past off her shoulders. “We deserve a happy future.” She reached over and clasped the other woman’s hand, deciding she liked the idea of her staying.

  * * * *

  At the sound of horses out front, Bettina hurried to open the door. Everett came inside, put his arms around her and kissed her on the lips. He smelled of leather and brisk air. She returned the kiss, hugged him, and then pulled away. “I have a surprise for you.”

  He looked up as Mrs. Camborne strolled down the hall. “Mother? It can’t be.”

  “Don’t stare at me like I’m a ghost.” Mrs. Camborne stepped up to him. He bent and she kissed his cheek. “You look well. This little wife of yours has made all the difference.”

  Everett smiled at Bettina. “Indeed, she has.” He hesitated, then hugged his mother. “I hope you’ve been well, Mother.” He took both their arms and escorted them down the hall. “You must tell me how you managed to leave your island.”

  Later, upstairs in the master chamber, Bettina unpacked Everett’s things. She sorted dirty clothes for washing and folded the rest into the clothes press.

  “Mother seems more … content, I suppose is the word.” He sat on the bed and pulled off his dusty boots. “And she intends to stay?”

  “I will enjoy having her company. I do hate lying about our marriage.” Bettina perched beside him. “Did you check on the London magistrates and their pursuit of Hollis?”

  “Yes, but I suspect they’re not doing much. Writing threatening letters and attempted extortion are of low priority. If caught with his hand in the till, then he could be tried and hanged.”

  Hearing the frustration in his voice, Bettina squeezed his arm. He drew her against him and kissed her. “I wish we could forget about him. I worry about you trying to find him on your own.” She rubbed a hand along his waistcoat. “Should we confide any of this to your mother?”

  “If my mother thinks we suspect Hollis of murdering Miriam, she’ll realize we can’t possibly be married. It’s better if everyone believes we are.” Everett kissed her again.

  “Maddie was quite curious about the wedding and wanted to know all about our finding Miriam and the ‘quick’ divorce. I hope I covered myself adequately. Kerra, she is just delighted I am expecting.” Bettina laughed, recalling her friend’s reaction. “I think she was disappointed that no one was buried here in the cellar.” She glanced at him. “That was not kind of me.”

  “It’s all right. If Miriam has met a harsh fate, I don’t rejoice in it. I’m sorry for the bitterness we caused one another.” Everett brushed his fingers along her cheek.

  “You once said for us to put the past behind us. I wish we could.” She slid her arms around his neck, touching his wavy brown hair. “I have not told your mother about the baby.”

  “She’ll notice soon enough.” He stroked his hand over her stomach. “I’m still amazed that mother is here, after all this time.” His gaze turned serious again. “But we can hardly forget about Hollis. He’s still a threat and could easily travel all the way out here to Cornwall.”

  Bettina leaned against him. “I realize that. But the only threat I want is you taking advantage of me.” She pulled his face down and kissed him on the mouth.

  Everett unfastened her dress. He returned her kisses with fervor and her body responded with that heavy, warm feeling. “Indeed, let’s put it from our minds for the next hour or so,” he murmured as he unbuttoned his waistcoat.

  * * * *

  The aroma of baked bread and spicy apples filled the air when Bettina and Everett came down the stairs in the morning chill. Mrs. Camborne was setting items on the dining room table.

  “Your mother likes to cook,” Bettina said. Her stomach, no longer beset with morning nausea, growled amidst the fragrant smells.

  The table was laden with freshly made scones, blackberry jam, butter, cream, a pot of tea, toast, and baked cinnamon apples.

  “Mother, you didn’t have to do all this,” Everett said, amusement in his tone.

  “Don’t mind me, dear, cooking has become a hobby of mine. There wasn’t much else to do on St. Agnes.”

  Frederick already sat at the table. He helped himself to a scone and spread butter across it. “There’s plenty to do here, Grandmother. You should see the garden.”

  “Then come spring, you and I will tidy it up,” she said to the child, patting his hand.

  He half-smiled at her with buttery lips. Then he knitted his brow. “Why didn’t you visit before? When Mother was sick?”

  Mrs. Camborne withdrew her hand; her face sagged.

  “Frederick, you’re speaking out of turn.” Everett wagged a finger at him. “You don’t ask your elders such personal questions.”

  “Alas, rudeness is rampant in small boys.” Mrs. Camborne shrugged and smiled.

  “Apologize to your grandmother, please.” Bettina heaped food on a plate.

  “I’m sorry.” Frederick stuffed a hunk of baked apple into his mouth. He chewed slowly and didn’t look sorry at all.

  “Are you in school, young man?” Mrs. Camborne poured herself a cup of tea.

  “No, and I’m glad I’m not returning to that London school.”

  “Your tutor has retired. I’ll find you a new one,” Everett said.

  “If I have the proper books, I could teach him.” Bettina smiled into the boy’s frown.

  Mrs. Camborne wandered around the dining room. “How’s the business, Everett? The troubles in France can’t be good for trade.”

  “You’re right. But we’re managing.” He looked at Bettina for a moment.

  Mrs. Camborne seemed distracted in her own thoughts. “I remember the lovely times Sam and I had here in this room, at this same table. Just talking, discussing the day’s events.”

  Her tone melted to a lyrical cadence whenever she mentioned her late husband. This chamber held no such enchantment for Bettina, though she loved to hear it filled with voices. She sat beside the boy and put butter and jam on a scone.

  Mrs. Camborne walked over to the window and drew back the heavy drapery. “Everett, do you remember that music box I used to have? The one your father gave me when we were first married? He knew how much I loved Bach, though his music hasn’t been popular these last several years. It played the Aria Variata … so inspiring. I always kept the box in here on the Queen Anne table in the corner.”

  “Yes, I remember it well.” He sipped his tea. “You took it with you when you left, I thought.”

  “I did. I was in such a hurry, silly old fool that I am. I traveled to Plymouth to visit my cousin Alice, whom I hadn't seen in years, just before getting on the boat to St. Agnes. After arriving on the island I realized I’d left the box at her home. I wept for days over it. But never could bring myself to retrieve it, almost as if I were afraid of the memories it held.” She hesitated, her hand rubbing the material of her skirt. “Then when I came home for poor Cla—the sepulture, of course the box wasn’t on my mind.”

  Everett walked over and put his hand on his mother’s shoulder, the
ir two lean figures silhouetted before the window. “Didn’t you disembark at Plymouth when you came back this time?”

  “My heavens, yes—but when I went to her home the place was locked up. A woman who peered over the hedge at me informed me that Alice had gone to Brighton and wasn’t due back for a week. I couldn’t waste time waiting for her, so I just continued on up here.” Mrs. Camborne stared out the window.

  Bettina nibbled on a buttery scone, then swallowed. She pushed her own wishes aside and voiced what she sensed remained unspoken. “Everett, why do you not take your mother down to Plymouth to pay a visit and pick up the music box?”

  “And leave you again so soon?” Everett stepped to the table and dished a baked apple onto a plate. “No, I don’t care for that idea.”

  Mrs. Camborne and her son desperately needed to mend their relationship and this was the perfect opportunity to throw them together, alone. “Frederick and I will be fine. And Lew is here. It should not take more than a week.”

  “You’re welcome to come with us, Bettina,” the older woman said. “Along with Frederick, of course.”

  “Will we see any pirate ships?” The boy hopped up, crumbs and purple jam on his lips.

  “I need you here with me.” Bettina grasped his hand and pulled him back into his chair. Then she rose and turned to the adults. “I do not care to travel right now, but I will be all right. Please you two go. I insist.”

  Everett beckoned her close. “I don’t like leaving you alone with Hollis on the loose. He might be after the boy,” he whispered.

  “I am alone when you are in London. I doubt he will come out here. We cannot let him dictate our every move,” she whispered back. “Please go,” she said aloud. “It will mean so much to your mother.”

  “Brow-beating me in your usual inexorable style. I’ll make certain that Lew is … attentive, and keeps an eye on the place. And both of you.” Everett kissed Bettina on the lips in a bold show of affection.

  “I will be here, as well, sir.” Mr. Slate had slipped into the room like a wraith with no one noticing. “I’m not in my dotage quite yet.” The lights from the candles made his scalp glisten through his thinning gray hair.

  “Of course, my good man.” Everett still looked uneasy. “We’ll hurry back as soon as possible.”

  Bettina smiled to see Mrs. Camborne’s face light up. She did hate for Everett to go, but hoped to bring a severed family back together, since incapable to do anything about her own.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Rain lashed the kitchen windows. The wind twisted and moaned around them. Oleba mopped up the water seeping in under the door. Bettina shoved a towel down to keep more water out. The sun had set hours before. The storm raging in from the sea had lasted all day.

  “I hope Everett and his mother are not out in this flaw. This will delay them.” Bettina dried her hands on her skirt. Six days had passed, and she surmised they would be on their way home in the hired post-chaise. Oleba blew out the kitchen candles. Bettina took the wick cutter and trimmed the wicks. “You go on to bed, please. I will finish up.”

  “I don’t know if I can sleep, Mrs. Camborne. I don’t care for storms.” Oleba waited, then walked with her into the dining room. “You’re right though, this is a terribly drafty place.”

  The bell jangled at the front door, startling both women. “What insane fool is out at this hour in such weather?” Bettina grasped her maid’s hand. She thought of Hollis and her haste in sending Everett off. But even Hollis wouldn’t be arrogant enough to announce his arrival.

  “A pity that Mr. Lew had to leave.” Oleba’s dark eyes widened.

  “It could not be helped.” Bettina had given her blessing that Everett’s coachman could return home that morning after Lew heard of his father’s death in Liskeard. She glanced toward the servant’s quarters “Where is Mr. Slate? I suspect our old butler has become hard of hearing.”

  The bell rang again. Bettina, her maid following, walked down and cautiously opened the door.

  The hall wall sconces flickered light over a tall broad-shouldered man in a long coat. The rain cascaded off the roof, splashing streams of water to the ground on either side of him.

  “Many pardons to intrude so late, dear lady.” He removed his hat and bowed, revealing dark hair graying at the temples and a handsome, square-jawed face. “I was told you might have a room to let for the night?”

  “I am sorry, sir, you are mistaken. The inn down the hill lets rooms. Good evening.” Bettina clenched her shawl around her, about to shut the door.

  “Indeed, but they are full. They directed me here, on the chance that you had a room to spare for just one night. Until the storm passes.” His rich, educated voice matched his attire.

  “Sir, we are not equipped for guests. Nothing is in order in any of the extra rooms. They have been closed for years. If you continue down the road to Port Isaac, you may find lodging there.” She gripped the door edge. Maddie should never have sent him here.

  “Most regrettable, as my horse has picked up a pebble. I don’t think he can go much farther without rest. I can pay you well for the trouble, I assure you.”

  Bettina felt trapped. She didn’t want to be cruel and turn this man away in such inclement weather, but the thought of an outsider spending the night unsettled her. At least he appeared to be a gentleman.

  “Very well, for only the one night. You can put your horse in the stable out back and come in through the kitchen door.” She closed the front door with a thud.

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea, Mrs. Camborne,” Oleba said in her soft voice.

  “What else could I do? Dory must have sent him up. Maddie would never do that when she knows Everett is gone. I will tell him he must stay in the stable. You go upstairs and check on Frederick, please.” Bettina strode to the kitchen, removed the soggy towel and waited for the stranger’s knock.

  “I do appreciate this.” The man entered in a whoosh of chill air. He tracked wet footprints over to the dying fire to hang up his cloak. It dripped a pool of water on the hearth. “I understand the Cambornes live here. May I know who it is I am inconveniencing?”

  “I am Bettina Camborne. Mrs. Everett Camborne. What is your name, sir?” She hoped she smoothed the irritation from her voice. “And why are you out in this storm?”

  “Business. I promise I won’t be a nuisance, dear lady.” His broad grin displayed a full set of large, white teeth, though it struck her as insincere. He smelled of pomade.

  “There is a decent room in the stable. It is small but dry. You may take a candle.” She pulled one out of a drawer and held it to the one in the candleholder, but he turned and stayed before the fire. “Sir? The stable has blankets.”

  “I'm forever in your debt, Mrs. Camborne.” He looked at her again, his gaze now sharp and assessing. “But isn’t your real name Lisbette de Jonquiere? Homere Jonquiere’s daughter.”

  Bettina’s stomach lurched. She jerked back a step. The candle flame wavered. “What do you mean? You still have not told me who you are.”

  “Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Bernard Little.” He inclined his head. “At your service.”

  “Armand’s elusive friend, mais non?” She couldn’t believe it. Her hand tightened on the candleholder. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  “To speak with you, of course.” Now his grin looked predatory.

  “Why did you not introduce yourself at the door?”

  “Sorry for the ruse. I wanted to make certain you’d let me in. I just want a calm conversation with you.” He rubbed his large hands together. “You wouldn’t have a brandy around, for a guest, would you?”

  “Sit here, at the table.” Gesturing with the candle, she hid her anger and sought her own clarification of Armand’s duplicity. She needed a moment to think. She wasn’t alone, Slate was nearby. Yet he was a frail old man.

  Little sat slowly. Bettina blew out the extra candle, kept an eye on him, opened a cupboard and gr
abbed a decanter of brandy. She poured one glass and took the chair across from him at the table. “Tell me what this is about. My husband will be home very soon.”

  He took a sip of brandy. “Not a bad vintage.” Little leaned back in the creaking chair. “Your husband shouldn’t leave you unprotected like this. I saw the other man leave.”

  “You were spying? Explain to me your business here.” She gripped the edge of her chair, trying to keep her words firm. “You must already know that Armand Siffre sent me to you in Bath. But you were not there. I do not understand everything behind his actions.”

  “Then allow me to enlighten you, dear lady.” He sat forward, elbows on the table. “It is fascinating. My counterparts in France had a large amount of money gathered to supply the dissatisfied with weapons, horses and such. More funds from abroad were transported, smuggled if you will, through your father, the Comte de Jonquiere’s, antique enterprise. A dabbling nobleman, his lack of business acumen allowed our people to prevail for a time—that’s why he was chosen.”

  “My father was chosen? Did he know what they were doing?” She gaped at Little, disbelieving his words.

  “Eventually Jonquiere did discover the operation. He confronted some of the people involved, several of his own clerks, and threatened them with exposure to the royalists.” Little opened his hands, palms upward. “They were left no choice but to … dispose of him.”

  “What does that mean, dispose of him?” The room seemed to swim around her. “You are not saying they murdered him?” A fist of anger balled in her stomach. “It is a lie!” But even as she said it, she feared it was the truth. Her mother must have lied about the heart attack.